


Under imperial control

by Mallorn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Boot Worship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Imperial Officers (Star Wars), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Xenophilia, Xenophobia, giant space slug massage, lekku, twi'lek smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 05:38:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13563990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: A convicted thief, you have been sentenced to a time of servitude in Jabba’s palace. Time runs its course with daily chores until a thin man of the Empire visits.





	1. The Visitor

The Hutt’s body is fleshy, coiled muscle beneath the rough skin. Your hands, softened with fragrant oil, glide easily over every ridge and bump as you massage him. The giant has closed his eyes. Were you alone, this would have been your chance to escape. As things are, a multitude of watchful eyes observe. There is also the small detail of the chain around your neck. Jewellery worth a fortune. If you could walk away with it, that is, if it didn’t chain you to the dais your current lord and master rests upon.

Only the tip of his tail remains now. Per usual routine, you straddle it, aware of the spectators’ leer. The Hutt feels smooth against your thighs – a surprise as always – and a little cold to the touch before he is warmed by your body temperature. Presumably, this is the only reason he needs you to wear so little while tending to him. The tail begins to vibrate between your legs, causing now familiar ripples of pleasure as it presses against you. You hold on with your thighs, slightly leaned forward for better purchase. And, you admit to yourself, because of how that makes his tail rub at precisely the right spot.

Your hands struggle to hold the tip of his tail in a solid grip, squeezing at the pace of the music. Always the same tune. Humming along comes naturally, along with the slick between your legs. Hold, squeeze, hold, squeeze, until a vicious beat of the tail flings you to the floor and the giant’s eyes fly open. His slug-like tongue hangs from his gap of a mouth and he flaps his arms a couple of times before stilling. Often, this is when he falls asleep, satisfied, and you are left to deal with your shameful arousal in the solitude of your sleep alcove.

“Stay,” his voice commands as you make to leave, your chain already removed for the night.

“My lord.”

“For tonight, we will all have a treat,” he announces and waves a fleshy finger. The crowd jeers. The major-domo, a tall twi’lek with impressive headtails and sharp teeth steps forward. In spite of his past as a slaver, he is not known for excessive cruelty, but now his eyes seem to shine with feverish malice. “Your turn, my trusty friend,” says the Hutt, and the twi’lek shrugs out of the upper part of his robe, leaving it hanging around his waist. Apparently, you aren’t done giving massages.  

Eager to finish for the night, you step behind him and reach for his massive shoulders, partially hidden under snake-like lekku. He reacts to your touch by relaxing visibly – his shoulders drop and he bows his head, allowing you to slide your hands beneath the appendages. They are heavy, yet have an air of delicateness to them, the skin thin enough that veins shine through. Fascinated, you glide your palm gently over the thickest one.

Fortuna spins around momentarily, catching your wrists in his hands. He looks agitated, but not angry, and though he startled you, it is not fear you feel as you meet his gaze. The desire you see in him reignites your own – you are suddenly markedly aware of your neglected body, the heat, the swollen flesh, the moisture between your legs. You shouldn’t want this so much, but you do.

“So eager,” he hisses and brings your wrist to his lips. He licks them repeatedly while pulling you closer to his front. His hardness presses against you and you suppress a moan as you grind against him.

“Go on, go on,” the Hutt encourages, his voice drowning out the musicians. The crowd is silent now, many of the them eagerly leaned forward to behold the full extent of your disgrace. You close your eyes and rub your face against the twi’lek’s chest. His skin burns hot like a furnace, just like your cheeks.

“Straddle me,” Fortuna says raggedly, “like you did him.” He lets go of your wrists and gracefully slides to the floor, where he lies on his back, supporting himself on his elbows. His robe is already open, his instrument visible. It is large, purplish and it twitches under your gaze. This is part of the service you owe your master. Yes, that is it. It is not your own perverted tastes that draws you to this alien, that makes you wonder what he tastes like and what sounds he will make.

Large but oh so gentle hands hold your hips steadily, steer you down until you sit on his thighs. “I want you,” he hisses with a clank of sharpened teeth, as if there had been any doubt of his intentions. “Now.”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Reaching towards your back, you unhook the belt that holds your loincloth in place. His hands are on your bottom instantly, kneading the flesh just as surely as he guides you into position. His fingers glide over lust-swollen lips, spreads moisture over your clit and then you drag your wetness over him and pull him inside. The intenseness of it makes you both gasp. He is so hot, so very thick. So different, yet not. For a moment, he becomes just a man to you, if one endowed with extra ridges. His eyes shine and his lips contort into a grin as you ride him. It is good, and all too soon to stop, but the crowd is merciless in their demands and the Hutt chooses to indulge them.

“They want us on our knees,” Fortuna growls and slips out of you with a groan.

“Please.” You are quick to comply. Anything goes, as long as it is soon, now.  

His organ probes you, glides tentatively along your folds, stabs at your clit a couple of times before he finds his true aim. The massive head holds you open and you pant, waiting, longing for him to thrust. He growls, no chuckles, then licks a stripe along your spine all the way to your neck. You tremble with the effort to hold still, rather than push against him. You could force him to enter you. It is not your place. The voices around you, the tittle in various tongues, unite and connect into a massive chant that fills the room and eggs the both of you on until finally he pulls back, only to thrust inside. He pounds into you, your whines and moans drenched in the roar from many throats. It is shameful and glorious and you lose yourself to the exquisite sensation, allowing yourself to shut out the audience as well as your conflicted mind for a few happy moments.

The head tails that Fortuna previously wore arranged around his neck now coil around yours, binding you to him. The tip of one wiggles in cadence with his thrusts, right in front of your open mouth. You dart out your tongue and feel him go rigid for a second, then pound you harder. The intense pleasure nearly makes you pass out, and you suck the lek into your mouth, very gently, pressing your tongue around it. The twi’lek growls and presses his teeth against the nape of your neck, thrusts hard enough to drive your face against the ground and then stills. You come, hard, the world whitening out for a second of glorious surrender.

As the twi’lek withdraws, leaving a trail of sticky fluid on your inner thighs, you become aware of a curious sound. Meat slapping against meat. The Hutt applauses, at the same time vigorously beating his tail into the ground. A hand is on your arm, then holds yours. Fortuna helps you rise. His eyes are the same sickly red as before, but when his lips part it isn’t the grin of a predator you see, but a smile.

“It’s a pity our master won’t let me breed you,” he says with a polite bow, then adds in a conspiratorial hiss: “Things will change.”

You shudder at the thought of him touching you ever again, but your body clenches nevertheless.

 

* * *

 

One month of servitude isn’t too bad a sentence, even for minor offence. The first week is tough, but after that things are familiar. Carry trays of creeps to disappear down the throat of the greatest one, bow and scrape and do his every bidding, occasionally allow your body to be examined. Sex. That first time with Fortuna was incredible. The Hutt enjoyed it so much it is now a daily act to wrap up the evening’s entertainment.

This time there is a guest. A thin man with an expression of contempt on his gaunt face. His eyes are feverish, hateful, his mouth a thin line. And yet, he shifts in his seat as if his trousers are beginning to feel too tight. It is an enjoyable sight and inspirational to lay your eyes on while Fortuna pounds into you from behind. The man continues to stare and you give an extra moan, just for him.

“How do you like my human?” the Hutt asks, then laughs. The man looks murderous. He obviously has no trouble understanding Huttese, even if he prefers to respond in carefully enunciated Basic. His dialect is one seldom heard here.

“This is a violation of our treaty,” he says coldly, as if he isn’t at all affected by what he sees. “The Empire controls this sector; all human prisoners are to be turned over to us.”

The flabby giant puts a stunted hand under his enormous, and, simultaneously, non-existing chin. “I have an offer. Seeing the feebleness of your Empire’s control, it is one you should consider.”

“Go on.” His gaze is steely, but thankfully no longer directed at you.

“Fuck her, and she’s yours.” The giant’s eyes widen with gleeful expectation and the man doesn’t disappoint him. He stares back with clenched fists, then directs his eyes to you again. His face is expressive and fascinating to look at, but the scrutiny is soon over. “What do you say,” the Hutt coaxes. “Quite the morsel, don’t you think? Hurry up or I may decide to eat her. I’m getting bored.”

“You are an abomination, my lord.” The calmness of his voice and the absence of shock on his face tells you that he knows at least this: the Hutt has no taste for man-flesh. Does he also know about the rancor-pit?

“Do you accept my offer, lord of the Empire?” The Hutt sounds gruff, but his tail is still.

“It’s Governor, and you know it, exalted one. Furthermore, I know better than to accept an offer from you at face value. Name your conditions.”

The giant laughs again, his rodent-like companions joining in. The noise is irritating to the verge of being painful and it takes all of the twi’lek’s skills to soothe you. “I like you, Governor,” the Hutt says and chuckles.

The man bows his head, managing to make it look as ironic as it is respectful. You can no longer control your moans.

“The conditions.”

“As I said, all you need to do is bang her.” You feel both gazes directed at you, but couldn’t care less. So soon now, just a little more. “Here, naturally,” the Hutt continues, “for the enjoyment and edification of my court and my guests. Many have never witnessed a human coupling.”

Fortuna thrusts without mercy and you love it love it love it and ah – ah – please – aaah!

“Ah.” The sound the man makes is drier than all the sand outside. He is pretending he wasn’t looking at you just now, but you saw him. He is even prettier when he blushes. Especially coupled with that barely hidden disapproval, as if you were the one who should feel ashamed.

“Just do it, once,” Jabba continues in a business-like tone, “and then you can take her with you, to interrogate or do with whatever is your pleasure.” He licks the rim of his enormous mouth and you shudder. The Hutt is not known to literally devour his prisoners, but the threat of becoming fodder for his pet is still real. You cast a pleading glance at the man, this Governor whose face is full of disdain even when his cock is eager.

“I accept, but on one condition,” he says slowly. “My part will be upheld by a man better suited for public displays. To ensure that the level of entertainment will meet your refined taste, my lord.”

“That is acceptable, Governor.”

The man rises and leaves the room, walking a lot more stiffly than even his age warrants. Fortuna rains tender kisses over your shoulders but nothing can dispel your feeling of disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This story feels like 'back to the basics' for me. After a couple of fics with more feelings and serious relationships, which I of course enjoyed writing, it's fun to do simple smut again. I hope you're enjoying the story so far and look forward to sharing the next chapter with you next week :-)
> 
> P.S. In case you were wondering 'why Bib Fortuna'... he's simply fascinating to me, despite his creepy looks, or because of them... I read kinky stuff sometimes... and if I look for something and it doesn't exist I write it myself. Lol!


	2. The Victor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The visitor returns, and brings another guest to Jabba's palace.

To Tarkin, Krennic’s reaction is predictable. The director’s curiosity is piqued, as is betrayed by his eyes, but he displays his usual flair for the dramatic. The man gestures as he paces in front of the desk, cape flowing in a manner that is, admittedly, attractive, but far too flamboyant to be taken seriously. Two more rounds, and then he will blow up. It’s almost hard not to smile when it happens.

“Are you mad? You want me to fuck some random chick in front of room full of aliens?” Face pink, eyes aglow. Good.

“The prisoner belongs with the Empire,” he replies calmly.

“You want to put the crime-lord in his place, is that it?” He is once again reminded that the director isn’t to be underestimated. The core of the matter indeed is not whatever doubtful intelligence could possibly be gained from a low-level servant.

“Our orders are clear,” he says, for now choosing not to answer the director’s question. “Besides, this thief is an attractive woman, and, knowing your exhibitionist tendencies you can’t trick me into believing you would mind the audience.”

“You get a prisoner, a successful mission,” Krennic whines. “What’s in it for me?”

Not laughing the director in the face takes quite some control. Always afraid to be passed over, belittled, robbed of something. Never, ever contented with his lot, even when it is enviable. He could have her himself! “As I said, you’ll have an attractive woman eager to please you, and an audience ready to applaud your conquest.”

“Eager?” His eyes, as innocent-looking as ever, widen. “Was she, now?”

Oh, she was. Sultry gaze, plush lips, staring at him as if she’d climb him any second. Degenerate. She enjoyed the alien’s embrace, the repugnant creature’s cock filling her again and again. So filthy. Obscene -

“Wilhuff?”

“Still Governor to you.” Sultry. Filthy. Begging for a man to give it to her properly.

“Wilhuff!”

Oh. Krennic has stopped pacing and is waving a hand in front of his face. Gloves indoors. How superfluous. “Eager?” Ah, yes. “Indeed. She looked insatiable, vying for my attention even when –“

“Yes?” The director’s expression of anticipation would almost make it worth declining his thirst for more.

“She was with a twi’lek,” he says slowly, choosing to drag it out just to watch those eyes grow with astonishment. Krennic’s mouth widens too, in a salacious grin. Indeed, twi’lek dancers are something to behold. “Not what you think,” he says abruptly, truthfully. “A male one.”

The expected reaction is not forthcoming. Rather than being disappointed, the director continues to grin; he’s almost salivating. “They’re big, aren’t they?”

This is where he has to draw the line. Discussing alien genitalia cannot by any means be considered part of the Grand Moff’s duties.

“The important part is that she is a human prisoner in a sector under imperial control. She is to be interrogated here.” For a second, the director looks duly chastised, a most welcome sight. It’s a pity there is one more truth that needs to come out. He sighs, then says it. “I need you for this mission.”

The infuriating man’s grin is back in an instant. “Need me, you say?” He looks incredibly pleased with himself. Pompous bastard.

“You heard me the first time, Director Krennic.”

“I will consider it, Governor.” The slight bow of head is as infuriating as the sweep of his cape when he leaves.

“Orson!” At least that makes him stop in his tracks, then turn slowly.

“Yes, Wilhuff.” That saccharine smile, baby-blue eyes. Punching that nose would be so satisfying. Instead, he rubs his temple. “You will do this. For me.”

Krennic doesn’t even blink. “Of course. Sir!” The salute even looks honest.

 

* * *

 

Governor Tarkin, the beautiful, thin man with the sharp cheekbones has returned. With only one week left of your sentence, he now represents a threat as much as an opportunity. Managing to remain in the Hutt’s grace for just a couple of days more would mean freedom. This is the goal that has kept you sane until now and you will not let a pretty face ruin your life. But, you can look.

He is too polite, or too well-versed in the world of politics, to let his attention stray from tonight’s entertainment. Maybe he’s simply appreciative of female beauty. Oola dances expertly, twirls sensually through the room with a grace that it would take the most cold-hearted speciesist not to appreciate. The twi’lek slave is breath-taking, even the sadness in her eyes cannot take that away. She’ll be happier once you’ll be gone and Fortuna’s attention returned to her. 

The governor’s companion, a man in his middle age, is even more attractive than he is. His greying hair appears sprinkled with silver dust and he has the bluest, most innocent eyes you have seen. Tall and straight-backed he is, handsome like the governor and infinitely more approachable. He is less absorbed by the twi’lek’s dance. Instead, he watches you with a calculating gaze, his gloved finger touching his lip. White suits him. The cape that hangs from his shoulders makes him appear some sort of royalty, in spite of the outsized blaster in his belt that marks him as a military man.

Oola returns to Jabba’s side after a long glance at Fortuna, who pointedly ignores her. The giant stretches out a meaty arm and calls the visitors forward. Tarkin moves calmly and with confidence. His companion marches impatiently, and when he stops it is with a practiced halt that makes the cape bounce attractively against his shining boots.

“I have come to uphold my part of the bargain, exalted one,” Tarkin states to the Hutt’s face with a small bow. His hands are on his back and his expression is superior, as if he’s overseeing a group of subordinates.

“You don’t trust me, Empire man.” Jabba’s bellowing laughter travels through his entire body, down to the wiggling tip of his tail. “You’re wise.”

“Your word carries some weight in these parts, mighty lord.”

“Perhaps I have changed my decision. Maybe I enjoy the company of this human so much that I no longer wish to part from her.”

Jabba’s gaze glides to you and for once, the look of adoration you direct at him is sincere. If only he lets you stay, you’ll make it up to him for every credit whisked away during the past months. You cast a love-struck glance at Fortuna as well, and he replies by licking his lip none too discreetly. Your body reacts immediately and you press your thighs together, hard. The twi’lek isn’t the only one to notice. The Governor makes a sour face that rises your hopes of remaining where you are.

“We have an agreement,” he tells the Hutt, “and more important, we are allies on a larger scale, unless you have forgotten.” The lack of honorific is very audible.

“My memory has weakened… perhaps a sign of old age.” He tilts his head outrageously, and the governor has finally had enough.

“I have an army at my command, criminal.”

“Would you deploy it for the sake of one thief?” The giant looks around gleefully, drawing giggles from the entire room. You can’t help smiling as well. The Hutt in a benevolent mood can be quite charming as long as one keeps careful watch for when it changes.  

“I would use it for the sake of peace and order.”

“Governor! Your empire’s sense of humour is weaker than a thief’s honour. It was a jest. Entertain me and then take her away.” He tugs your chain and you rush to his side, sinking to your knees. He can’t do this! You need to stay!

“Please don’t send me away!” The words instantaneously earn you a stinging slap that puts you back into your senses. Fine, you deserved it.  He will never keep you now. There went your freedom, you’ll rot in imperial prison indefinitely.

The Hutt pats your head and tosses a half-rotten creep into his mouth. “Prove your worth and I will decide. I may keep you after all.”

The man purses his lips. You smile, the new chance erasing any trace of pain. The Hutt’s promises are fleeting, sometimes as short-lived as his threats. The time to act is now, and seducing a handsome stranger will not be a difficult price to pay to enhance your chances at being freed.

“Get on with it,” Jabba says to the other man, yawning. “She smells like she’s ready.”

Fortuna has snuck close to his master and whispers in his ear. The Hutt chuckles.

“Sit, gentlemen,” he declares. “My major-domo will prepare the lady.” He blinks and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial hiss. “It’s only fair that he gets to say farewell. If, indeed, she’s leaving.”

Aware of your priorities, you slide up to the twi’lek and lean back against his chest. His right hand glides over your torso and slides to the juncture of your thighs, while the left plays with your breasts. He is very skilled and you really wouldn’t mind continuing to enjoy his attentions for a few more days.  You turn your head to kiss a lek, so smooth to your tongue.

The thin man watches with fascination, his gaze seemingly never leaving the twi’lek’s hand, which by now glistens with the evidence of your arousal.

The other man draws his massive blaster and jumps forward with a speed unexpected considering the silver at his temples. His face is a mask of disgust, his eyes blue shards of ice and his mouth contorted in a sneer.

“Release her,” he commands, hinting with the gun.

One more step forward, and he’ll be standing on the trap door. He is far too handsome for rancor food. You cast a pleading glance at the Hutt, who is holding up his hands in mock surrender.

Mixed feelings play over the man’s face – surprise, hesitance, then confidence. He thinks he has won. Jabba sees it too and bursts out laughing. He says something in Huttese and Fortuna stills his hands, instead slipping into the role of interpreter.

“My master finds you a feisty thing,” he says, the mockery made worse by his droning voice and the little bow he performs after delivering the words.

“Release her. Now,” the man spits.

“You will be the instrument of her release, as agreed between your master and mine,” Fortuna replies sweetly, smiling at the man’s sourness. He clearly doesn’t like the idea of Tarkin being seen as his master.

He does put his gun back in its holster and stares at you with a pout.

“Cheer him up,” Jabba says and sends you off with a slap to your butt. “Or he won’t be much entertainment.”

You carefully steer the man away from the trapdoor, as eager to please your master as to save this new visitor. Even if you’d rather not follow him home.

Baby-eyes is still angry when you move towards him. Cheekbones is standing to the side but appears to be on his guard, eying you critically. ‘I can do this’, you tell yourself. Your target stands rigid, seemingly unaffected by your closeness. As you walk, his eyes begin to follow your breasts. Hand twitches. Good. Up close, it is easy for his hand to slip to your thigh, hip, bum. He is still angry, the way he grabs you unmild, yet distant, insincere. His heart isn’t in it.

“How can I make this good for you?”

He snaps, left hand flying to blaster again as the right holds you steady against his front.

Fortuna hisses, and two gamorreans in armour with weapons at the ready appear from a doorway.

The Hutt convulses and opens one eye, his sleep evidently disturbed by the commotion.

“Go away,” he says in thickly accented Basic.

“She’s coming with us!” The silver-haired visitor doesn’t back down at the threat, rather he seems the more determined to win.

Jabba casts an uninterested glance at you. “Take her. People always say that humans are more fuss than they’re worth. I agree.” He glances around and his minions laugh with glee. A beat of the tail silences them and the giant goes back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Your new home is a locked, windowless conference room aboard a giant star destroyer. Having never been off-planet, you expected more. The experience of space travel is so far disappointing. It should have been grander somehow, and less the equivalent of being pushed inside the average ground transport for suspected criminals. At least the room is spotlessly clean, every surface a shade of grey. The table is glossy enough to reflect your face. Even a fingerprint on the surface would mar it. The chairs look uncomfortable and they are. Hard plasteel, good for keeping their occupants alert during meetings. The floor is more pleasant to sit on. Wall-to-wall carpet, as bland as everything else, but decidedly softer.

Arms around your torso for warmth, you resort to sitting in the corner farthest from the door. After a while, the lights go out. It is soothing, yet feeds imagination with ideas of abandonment – what if you are forgotten already, left here to die? The act of wiping an annoying tear from your eye make the lights turn on again, the sharpness of it making your eyes tear up again, but dissipating agony somewhat.

A sound at the door wakes you from bored slumber and you scramble to your legs as cheekbones, the Governor, enters quietly. He takes in your appearance with a gaze of disdain. What was seductive finery at Jabba’s palace is out of place here in a childish, uneducated savage way. His attention is uncomfortable like this.

“Cover yourself,” he says, handing you a grey – _grey_ – wrap. It is thin and pliant, yet pleasantly warm and large enough to reach below your knees when wrapped around your shoulders.

“Thank you, governor. May I ask for how long I will be kept here?”

“So eager to return to the Hutt? I would have thought a moment of reprieve from that unsavoury denof vice a welcome change.”

“Tatooine is my home. It’s all I know and I’d like to return,” you continue cautiously.

“We will see about that,” he says. “It depends on you. At present, you will be kept here for interrogation.”

So it begins. Images of torture course through your mind, pain, cold steel and blood. So much blood. You begin to tremble.

The man shakes his head and pulls out two chairs, placing them opposite one another. “Sit.” He takes one, folds his long, thin legs into a sitting position and then waiting until you are seated as well. He looks at you calmly. There is no sign of instruments, droids or even restraints. Time passes and all he does is look at you. Calmly, as if he’s waiting for the right moment. After a while, it becomes unbearable and you start squirming.

“What are you doing in Jabba the Hutt’s service?” He says is almost casually and it would be easy to be deceived, if not for his piercing gaze.

What kind of question is that? “I thought that was pretty clear.” The blanket has fallen apart, showing a part of leg and jewel-adorned hip girdle. “You saw it.”

“That performance was not part of your normal duties.”

“It was penance for my sins.”

“Why were you in his service in the first place?”

“I need to eat. I have some skills with finances. He’s a decent employer as long as you don’t get caught stealing.”

“You betrayed him.”

“I took a gamble and I lost.” He clearly doesn’t believe you. “Don’t look at me like that! It was just money. No one innocent suffered.” That might almost be true.

“Next you are going to tell me that Fortuna set you up.”

“What if he did? Actually, it’s entirely possible they send temptations our way as a cheap way to expand on the Hutt’s entertainment personnel.”

“Pleasure slaves.” His lips curl in disgust.

“Temporarily, in my case. I had just four days more to go until I’d be free.”

“How lucky I was to intercept you, then.” Amused glints are in his beautiful eyes. “What do you know about the Hutt’s involvement with the rebels?”

“Never heard of it.”

He rises from the chair. “Two very dangerous individuals were caught just the other month. What do you say about that? Your _trade_ has kept you close to the throne.”

“Uh… maybe? They would have ended up in the rancor pit if they came near. I’ve never heard the Hutt speak against the Empire. The alliance is quite profitable for him. Anything jeopardizing it would be dealt with.”

“I see.” He staples his fingers underneath his chin, then flings his arms about. “That is all for now, then. Unless there is something else you would like to tell me.” His gaze is scrutinizing again, and difficult to resist.

“Thank you for being so kind to me. Perhaps there is something I can do for you?” You let the blanket fall open again, drawing an appreciative glance before he schools his features again. “I am completely at your mercy,” you encourage, hoping to entice him. You’d sleep with him for the simple pleasure of his company, no favours required.

“I am not in the habit of using prisoners for personal gratification,” he states icily. “Furthermore, I’ll have you know that officers of the Empire are held to a much higher standard than the minions of a crime lord.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” If he’s shocked, he hides it expertly. “Glad, I mean.” At your correction, he narrows his eyes suspiciously. He doesn’t trust you.

“Your fate will be decided tomorrow.” Two long strides and he reaches the door. Long, bony fingers operate the keypad swiftly and the door opens, then slides closed behind him. He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and sorry for the comparative lack of smut in this chapter - I do promise the story will earn its rating back in the next one ;-)


	3. Vices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Director Krennic pays you a visit, and this story is back to earning its rating.

It’s very late by the time you get a visitor again. Boots click confidently against the floor outside the room, making you hope. This is not the governor, but it may be his silver-haired companion with the blue eyes and the hot temper.

Krennic steps into your makeshift cell and strides to the middle of it before he speaks.

“I sent the guards away,” he announces, his gaze scanning the ceiling before he finally looks at you directly. “Nobody sees or hears what happens here.”

“I see,” you say hesitantly, not sure what message he means to convey. Is he seeking to intimidate you, to force some kind of confession? Or is this his way of telling that he’s come to collect payment for ‘freeing’ you? He drapes the cape over the spine of a chair and sits down. His blaster is out again and he’s studying it closely, turning it over in his gloved hands as if contemplating what to do with it. Better not let him think too long.

“How – how may I be of service?”

It is the right thing to say. He puts away the weapon, then lifts his head slowly and looks at you with hunger. He straightens his back, placing his feet firmly onto the floor, widely spread. His lips part in a sardonic smile that widens as you let go of the wrap around your shoulders. The garment falls open and, with a shrug of your shoulders, glides towards the floor. This man really is something. Cocksure, annoying, yet very desirable. Heat gathers between your legs as you stare into his darkened eyes, waiting for him to voice his wish.

He looks away, then speaks nonchalantly while leaning back into the chair. “My boots need cleaning.”

You sink to the floor immediately, your lips kissing the leather without a second thought. This is your path to freedom. Krennic swallows audibly when your hands clasp his ankle and he sits very still at first. The task is strange, but not unpleasant. He must have had the boots cleaned previously by more conventional means as there is no hint of anything else than the leather itself, with a tint of chemicals. Daring a glance, you look up at him while resuming to lick the shaft near his knee.

His left hand lands on top of your head and strokes it gently a couple of times, but just when you begin to relax, he gathers a fist of hair at the neck in a firm grip that forces you to stop what you’re doing. His mouth is half open, but he doesn’t speak. Slowly, his right hand cups your chin, then glides in front of your mouth, so close, yet unattainable from the way he’s holding you back. Darting your tongue out, you manage to taste him anyway. More leather, only softer, suppler.

Then, suddenly you are free. You pursue those fingers, wondering what they would feel like bare. He enjoys your tasting them even like this, encased in leather. You enjoy it, too, but want more. His crotch is so close now, trousers clearly tented. You suck harder on the digits in your mouth, all the while staring at his crotch until you can no longer refrain from touching.

He grunts, then stands abruptly. Quick reflexes save you – what could have been a kick comes out as a shove that injures only your pride.

With a few deft keystrokes, the door opens and he leaves, cape fluttering. The door hasn’t closed yet, and you are already analysing what you did wrong. He stops in his tracks, abruptly interrupting your thoughts.

“Sleep here on the floor tonight or come with me,” he states in a low voice, without looking back. “The choice is yours.

 

* * *

 

His quarters are opulent. They are the same grey as the rest of the interior, although with a few personal touches and a magnificent view. The bed is what draws your attention the most, although sleep is not your first priority.

“Come here,” he says and embraces you, giving you a hint of his hardness before he lifts you onto the desk in the other room.

He soon has two fingers inside of you, pushing rhythmically until you gasp softly with each thrust. Then he pulls them out and shoves them inside his mouth instead.

“You are mine now,” he says. “I bought you.”

Your response is to lean back a little, gliding closer to the edge of the desk as you part your thighs even further.

“Say it,” he demands, cock already in hand.

“Yours,” you admit with a gasp as he pushes inside.

Here, it is not the truth that will free you, but whatever favourable impression you will leave on this man. He pinches a nipple and grins when you yelp, then laps at the other. Dampness make them pucker up with cold rather than lust; the director couldn’t care less. He’s grunting like an animal now, a silly, annoying sound, and yet his earnest passion is contagious. The moan he draws from you as he strokes your swollen nub is altogether honest.

“Good, hmm?” he mumbles when the combination of his rapid, shallow thrusts and insistent fingers have you pushing back against him as you stare open-mouthed. It is, good and perfect and pure and you would tell him if you could, if you weren’t so reluctant to give him reason to boast. If you weren’t so afraid to ruin this moment.

“Turn around, now.” His voice is low, the words uttered without doubt that you’d comply. The desk is hard against your elbows, but at least not cold, and soon there is another distraction. Lips tracing your spine. Hands reverently gliding over the skin, slowly, teasingly, until you stick your backside out and widen your stance.

“Please,” you tell him, and he continues to tease. He is flush against you now, his hardness hot against your skin. His hands are on the table, well-manicured and soft. A heavy ring adorns his right ring-finger, the symbols on it offering a point of focus when you can no longer bear waiting. You stare, panting silently until the hand is lifted and used to coax your knee up onto the table.

He lets out a breath and then slips inside. Now, any pretence of dignity is gone. Keening moans are what he draws from you with each deep stroke. He is grunting louder now, thrusting viciously and then fingers grab your hair and you arch your back and an endless string of curses spills from his lips as you cry out for more, harder, now, yes oh yes now please more please plea –

His satisfied grin as you turn your head is a thing of beauty. He looks relaxed now, happy, his face that of a much younger man with fewer sorrows. Under different circumstances, you wouldn’t hesitate to kiss him. It is unthinkable now. He’s gotten what he wanted and might as well kick you out.

“This door is locked,” he states, gesturing towards the entrance. “It’s been a pleasure to get to know you better, but we both know who would be in a snit if you were to roam the corridors. So, just as a precaution.”

“I understand.” He’ll let you stay, then. The tension that built up over the day finally leaves your body and gives room to sudden fatigue. Considerable effort is needed to visit the refresher, and you are relieved to find Krennic asleep when you enter the bedroom.

When morning comes, he’s cuddly and playful. He stretches languidly like a big cat, then pulls you closer. You smile at the glitter in his eyes - a good night’s sleep in a soft bed has done wonders for both of you. He looks like he’d let you kiss him, and when you do, he rolls onto his back with you on top. Oh. Someone is as eager as you. You grind down onto him and so little effort is needed to get him where you want.

“Give me a moment.” He disappears into the other room, leaving you to touch yourself and moan demonstratively until he returns with a datapad in his hand. A few more keystrokes and a rather harshly entered command, then the device is put to the side and he crawls into bed, underneath the blanket, much faster than you’d give him credit for. He surfaces between your legs with tousled hair and a grin. Your hand is brushed aside and then his mouth is there, his flat tongue licking you and it’s absolutely filthy and the most wonderful thing.

Wanting to be filled, you pull him up for a sloppy kiss that makes you both laugh. He rolls you both over again, then glances at his chrono.

“You have precisely three minutes to make me come. Think you can do that?”

You don’t answer – the question is silly and there’s no time. Pleasure aside – and there’s lots of it – your future depends on him. Quickly, you scoot back to take him into your mouth for encouragement, then you straddle him again. He loves how you guide him inside with your hand, the urgency with which you ride him, chasing both time and satisfaction.

“Take me,” you whine, noting the favourable response. “Now, please, oh, please – oh –“

It can’t have taken more than two minutes and a half for any of you.

Breakfast is heavenly; soft white bread with sweet spread and hot caf. The director keeps his cigarettes to himself.

“You’ll go back to that room now,” he declares as he watches you dress. “You have spent the night there; my men will confirm it.”

Strange soldiers entirely in black escort you to the conference room, and after a while, a second breakfast arrives – healthier, less luxurious. You eat it all. Waiting is tedious and after enjoying such a generous dose of Krennic’s attentions you need rest.

Then, the governor’s office. Krennic is there, too, but Tarkin is the one who speaks.

“You are to be released.” Relief begins to settle in, but he lifts his finger, a small gesture that commands your attention. “Wait. You were sentenced to a month’s servitude. If my memory serves me correctly, two days still remain of your term.”

“That is right.” Of course it is – Tarkin seems the type that have never done a thing wrong in their lives.

“I will offer you a choice. You may either return to the Hutt immediately and serve out your term there. Or, you may choose to remain here.”

His face is set in stone; there’s no telling what he’d prefer. You guess it’s the latter, why else make the offer? A glance at the younger man reveals more. His confident stare appraises you, an almost-smile on his lips. He knows what you will choose, and he desires it. Is he the one you have to thank for this?

“If I were to stay, would I be locked up in that room again?”

The question seems to surprise the governor. “I do not see what good that would do; incarceration is not a part of your term. You would make yourself useful.”

Krennic is grinning now – arms crossed, lips curled. Still sure of himself, if grated by your hesitation. He would make sure you’d be of use, and loving every second of it. He strokes his lip with a gloved hand and you suck in yours.

“How,” you ask absentmindedly, your gaze never leaving the director’s.

“What does it matter,” Krennic exclaims. “Stupid woman!” A glance from the older man makes him shut up, though he still glares at you.

The choice is, in fact, easy. It has little to do with how you’d spend those last two days, and everything with whether they would, indeed, end in freedom. Jabba can usually be trusted in matters of business, from afar. In his presence is a very dangerous place to be. You strongly suspect the same goes for the man in white. Director Krennic is passionate, volatile, potentially cruel. Under the governor’s control, he is still dangerous, but he wouldn’t dare to kill you. The Hutt would have no qualms.

Tarkin clears his throat. “I am sure we can find something for you to do,” he says with an annoyed voice. “Now, make up your mind.”

The choice is easy, dictated by chances of survival, at least that is what you tell yourself. It has nothing to do with the director. Whatever happens after those two days, here, you’ll still live.

“I’ll stay.”

“A wise decision. Your distrust is appalling, however. You will be dumped back to that sand-hole in two days’ time; I will see to it personally.” He looks disappointed, and a sense of guilt overwhelms you.

“Thank you,” you say softly, averting your eyes. “I am very grateful.”

“As you should be. Now, follow me.”

He takes you to what appears to be a maintenance area, but rather than entering the door that says ‘Laundry’, he directs you to the closet beside it.

“Choose something to wear. Something _appropriate_.”

“Of course.” Seething, you pick out a pair of comfortable-looking trousers and a soft tunic that look like they’d be both comfortable to wear and practical for whatever work you’d need to do. Did he really think you’d prefer to walk about half-naked on a kriffing star destroyer if you had a choice? You put on the clothes slowly, enjoying making him wait. The slave garments are flimsy enough to work as underwear – there’s no way you’d leave something as valuable behind.

When you finally leave, he doesn’t even look annoyed. His gaze glides over you and he nods. “Good.” You expect the laundry room next, and a long shift of honest work, but Tarkin doesn’t make any sign of leaving. You hint towards the door. “Is this where I’ll be serving?”

Rather than replying at once, the governor purses his lips.

“He’s been using you.” He declares it flatly, without any trace of emotion. As if this is a normal occurrence, something that ought to be expected.

“I – I did not discourage him.”

The wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens and he stares at you with disapproval.

“He invited me,” you continue, eager to explain, to be forgiven. “It seemed wise to accept… under the circumstances.” Your voice has faltered to a whisper.

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“If you say so, sir. The director’s advances weren’t unwelcome.” He stares at you and you hold your stance. You wanted it, too. Besides, didn’t he bring Krennic to Jabba’s palace for precisely that reason? Maybe he’s just put off because he didn’t get to watch. He doesn’t strike you as someone who’d care if prisoners were exploited.

Finally, he sneers. “I will find ways to occupy you in my office.”

 

* * *

 

Physically, the job is easy. All Tarkin wants is order. Office supplies counted, arranged in straight lines, reports sorted, shelves dusted and polished. He doesn’t let you out to fetch him anything and after a while the idleness is maddening.

You can’t help looking at him even if it makes it worse. Perhaps this is your true punishment, to be near him, knowing that he doesn’t care for your affliction, will not touch you, hardly deign you with a glance. That last is unfair, his attention you do have, just not the way you’d like. Here, he is professional. He doesn’t look at you with lust, his glance stays steady at your face. There is no touching, nothing of all that you yearn for. His impersonal kindness is a cruelty that hurts you more than anything the director could inflict on you.

“Time for a break,” he announces as he rises from the desk. “I’ll bring you something.”

“Thank you.” This thoughtfulness is surprising, but welcome, and you apply yourself a little harder to the task of dusting his trophies.

Steps approach and a muffled conversation is heard from outside, then receding taps of boots. The guard outside is doing his job of keeping you "safe", or locked up. The click as the door opens is a surprise, and the person entering the more so. The flare of lust at the mere sight of him is quickly dampened by survival instinct. This is not the time, nor the place. His being here is a threat. Krennic shoves the door closed, then strides up to you hurriedly, catching your wrist just as you’re to take a step back.

“I need you,” he says in a ragged voice. “It’s been hours since I had you. I’m fucking dying!”

“I – I’m flattered, but do you think –“

“Why so alarmed? One could almost think you're not happy to see me.”

His mouth smiles, but his eyes do not. Tread gently.

“Oh, I am.” You smile back, hoping your eyes are good enough liars.

“Are you, now?”

“Very. Only, perhaps you shouldn't be here.”

“Is the prisoner giving me orders? How droll. Let's see how sincere that mouth of yours is.” He pulls your closer, eager lips seeking yours, hammering away at your resolve.

“Not here,” you tell him again. “Tonight, we must wait until tonight.”

“What are you afraid of? That he'll want to join in? I don't believe you'd be averse to that. I saw how you looked at him before. And the alien. You're a rather insatiable little slut, which is precisely why I want you right now. Here.”

“Please – he'll never let me go if –“

“If he sees you like this? You think he'd keep you here longer if you cross him? Oh no, that would be too much of a pleasure for me. And a temptation for him. Tarkin follows the rules. If he believes you unjustly detained, he'll let you go, regardless of how you behave.”

“I, on the other hand, may be persuaded to put in another good word for you, if you give me reason to do so. Like, if you stop squirming and let me put my hand inside your panties, yes, just like that. Feels good, doesn't it? It'll feel even better in a moment… part your legs... there. Now, you'll pull those pants down and bend over the desk, I promise not to stop touching you. Good. Legs wider. Yes.”

His fingers are gone and you stick your ass out, chasing them. There's a growly laugh and rustling of fabric, and then his hands are on your backside, rubbing and grabbing and there's something poking at your entrance.

"Greedy little slut," he says hoarsely. "Just a moment and you'll get all you are asking for."

You hold still, stopping the reflex to push back and let him do the work. He eases himself in, slowly, deliberately, probably more to keep you on the edge than because of any need to go gently. You haven't been this wet since the day the governor first visited. Now, thoughts of him make you feel doubly guilty, for thinking about one man while being fucked by another, and also for lusting after him at all when there is no interest from his side, and here in his office of all places.

Krennic grunts with every thrust and his fingers never still. He touches you everywhere, licks and kisses your skin as if he truly cannot get enough of you. It is a heady drug.

“Tell me you want more,” he breathes into your ear. “Say it.”

“Ah, yes,” you moan, truthfully even if it is for his benefit mostly. “Fuck me now, more, harder.”

“I will give you more. Oh yes, all you want.”

This infuriating, over-confident, arrogant man is all you want. Afraid that even your muffled cries would be heard, you bite your wrist. Krennic’s grunts are quiet enough, interspersed with ragged breaths.

“Come for me,” he pants and rolls his hips with a wicked twist. “Come for me, right on the governor's pristine desk. Now, right now.”

There is no resisting that voice. The way he wields it alone could work miracles, and coupled with the sensations he brings your body, little encouragement is needed to tip you over the brink. You tremble against him, bite your wrist harder, throw your head back and stiffen. Someone is at the door.

In the agonising, slow seconds that pass until the governor enters the room, the director has somehow managed to not only adjust his attire, but distance himself from you. He is standing by the viewport, casually supporting a gloved hand against the frame. You are still in the process of pulling up your trousers.

The sense of shame that washes over you as your gaze meets Tarkin’s makes you wish the room were similarly equipped as the Hutt’s. A trap door to swallow you would feel a milder fate than seeing his cold rage.

“Out.” That is all he needs to say. He doesn’t sound agitated, nor is he loud. The director flees and you follow in his steps, but the guards stop you.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, desperately repeating the words over and over while instructs the guards on what to do with you. He doesn’t look at you, and that hurts.

Laundry duty for the remainder of your stay is a soothing experience, even with a guard on both sides of the locked door. It is lonely, hard labour but the lack of drama and the heat remind you of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope you enjoyed the smut and found it worth waiting for. I do prefer to post regularly, but the past couple of weeks have simply been too overwhelming with work, studies, family obligations and various responsibilities for me to find the peace and quiet I need to write. Next chapter, next weekend hopefully. Thanks for reading!


	4. Virtues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarkin :-)

A month later, you have been permitted to return to your previous work, for a period of probation under Fortuna’s watchful eyes. The office wing is safe enough, far from the more unsavoury elements of Jabba’s entourage, and it’s good to be back to normal. Attendance in the great palace hall is expected only when prominent guests call for a larger audience.

You have longed for the thin man’s return. For the director’s also – for all conflicting feelings, his face, hands, boots invade your mind when you indulge yourself at night. Tarkin is unattainable, your imagination not enough to capture him.

Spotting him in a chair beside the Hutt’s platform makes it all come back to you. Sinful memories of how he watched you with Fortuna when you first saw him, his burning gaze coupled with disgust, and then, the obvious evidence of his arousal. Now, he’s talking with the twi’lek, his noble profile turned towards you. He’s still impossibly beautiful with that nose, those cheekbones, those hands that gesture to underline something said.

“Master,” you greet the Hutt with a nod, respectfully but without unnecessary subservience. His employee you will remain, but never again a slave, if you can avoid it.

The giant laughs. “Drinks for my guest,” he says and belches. “Drinks! You know what humans like.”

“Of course.” _Nothing as disgusting as what counts as delicacies for hutts._ A tray later, you approach Tarkin and Fortuna. The man stares at you, letting his gaze drag over you from head to toe.

“She’s wearing a bit much,” the twi’lek says and bares his teeth. His fingers glide over your hip, slowly, they stay just below your waist. It takes effort not to lean into his touch. “Much more than last time we met.” He smiles as he removes his hand and takes a glass.

“She is no longer a slave,” the man remarks. “This attire is appropriate for her role.”

“True. It’s still a pity.” Fortuna uses his tongue to lap at the drink, all the while looking into your eyes. With heated cheeks, you turn to the imperial officer, offering him the remaining glass.

“Thank you.” He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip.

“Sit,” Fortuna orders as he stands from the chair beside Tarkin. “I have matters to attend to.” He winks, slowly, then turns to the man and adds, “Enjoy your evening, governor.”

Precisely what matters the twi’lek had in mind becomes clear when he shrugs off his cloak while walking, revealing his muscular back and sensuous gait. Music starts to play and Oola dances past, her gracefulness catching everyone’s eyes. She twirls over the floor, then starts walking seductively towards Fortuna, beckoning to him with her fingers. The large twi’lek is on his knees now, slowly creeping towards the slender woman. She prowls around him, teases and eggs him on until, with a growl, he catches her and buries his head between her thighs. Her moans are… inspiring, to say the least. You shift in your seat.

A glance at the governor’s crotch reveals him to be similarly affected by the entertainment. His legs are so close, the room darkened, so very little effort would be needed to touch him. His hands clutch the armrests and he’s leaned forward, intently observing the couple on the scene. You straighten your skirt and let your fingers creep the small distance over to his thigh.

“So, he sent you to me even now,” he states dryly, not changing his position. “How curious.”

“He didn’t.”

“Then why do you do this?”

Emboldened by his tolerance, you stroke his leg, discreetly edging towards his crotch. You feel his thigh stiffen, then relax. His mouth is open now, but no sound comes over his lips as you traverse the last inch towards your goal. A small moan slips from you when you feel him under your palm. He’s so _hard_.

“Answer me.” His grip around your wrist is not harsh, but unrelenting. Your impulse to snatch your arm back is a study in futility. Swallowing your anger, you begin to stroke him with your other hand instead. He leans back, appearing to relax, except for his flaring nostrils.

“I want to be here,” you tell him, truthfully.

“I have no power over you here and no – ah – favours to give.”

“Maybe this is all I need.” His breath hitching is an amazing sound.

He strikes as fast as a sand viper, catching your other wrist, then pins you with his gaze. His eyes are a controlled storm. His silence amplifies the indecent sounds from the couple on the floor and as much as they stir your need, listening to them while he stares at you paint your cheeks with shame. From the corner of your eye, you see how Oola undulates against Fortuna, his tongue caressing her lek. They are both moaning.

“Look at me.”

The stern command makes you whimper. How could you direct your attention elsewhere when this man with the sharp cheekbones is close? His mouth is a thin line now, the hollows in his cheeks dark pools against his sallow skin. Ten minutes in the sun would burn him to ashes. Now, his lips open and you stare, mesmerized, waiting with awe for whatever verdict he will place on you.

“I will release you now,” he says. “If you are at all sincere in your misguided attentions, you will place your hands on the armrests and keep them there.”

“I understand.” If he sees through the lie, he doesn’t show it.

“Furthermore, you will enjoy the show.” This is an order easy to follow. Fortuna is on the floor now, supine, his impressive organ striving towards the ceiling.

Your wrists free, you rub them. A low grunt reminds you to let your hands rest, rather than seek out adventures. You squirm in your seat; the scene before you makes it increasingly difficult to sit still. Ah. You buck at the touch that ghosts over your crotch. Soon, his fingers are back, stroking lightly over the material of your skirt. They are just pets, too soft to accomplish anything but stoke arousal. Fingertips rub more insistently now and you lift your pelvis against them, chasing his touch. If you part your legs a bit more, maybe he will… yes. Another whimper comes over your lips and he presses harder against your nub, your swollen lips. Your gaze flies to your lap – seeing those long, thin fingers at work is fascinating. How the veins on his hand swell, how the delicate bone moves underneath. He is playing you expertly.

“Ah,” you pant, “please – mmm – yes please.” A diabolic smirk graces his lips and he removes his hand.

“If, indeed, you are serious about these desires, we will retire to a more secluded area.”

“Yes.” _Anything you say, governor, just please keep touching me._

“Lead the way.” He rises without drawing attention to himself, his gait only a fraction stiffer than before. So unfair. You’re a mess already.

Whereto? All rooms nearby are deserted, yet none seems appropriate. Too large, too small, too public, no, that nasty smell with ruin everything.

Eventually he does the choosing. “This will do,” he declares and opens the nearest door. It’s a kriffing closet, something used by the servants. Shelves cover the walls, stacked with items of clothing.

“There’s no bed,” you complain. “I want a bed.”

“Do you think I care?”

His audacity makes you shut your mouth in pure astonishment. Normally, you would have snapped something back, but now the challenge in his gaze stokes another fire. Reaching behind him, you push the door closed. _Click._ If it’s his time to be surprised, he hides it expertly. His eyes scan the room, then land on you with a smug grin. Whatever his decision, he’s very satisfied with it.

He crowds you against the door. Being so close to him is strange and wonderful. His tunic smells fresh, scented with something floral, his lips up close are dry, a fine capillary net under the skin makes one cheek look a little redder than the other… These are observations, all meaningless compared to the tingling, boiling want that spreads through you as you continue to look at him. The thought that he wants you, too, sits on the rim of your conscious mind. The idea is intoxicating, and you’re just waiting for it to hit you fully. And then, when it does, you will cast aside everything else. Such anticipation…

“In truth, you do desire me.” His voice is cool, soothing reason.

You nod. _Ever since I first saw your curbed passion, your control. I wanted it. I wanted to – break it, taint it, sully it with my lack of – make you a creature equal to the rest of us. Dethrone you, governor_.

“The things you let the Hutt’s _servant_ do to you. The Empire does not approve of such.”

“Sexual slavery? Then your Empire chooses its business partners badly. Or is it just that Bib isn’t human? Such prejudice against your allies, governor.”

_Did you want me for yourself when you saw us together? Did you imagine your hands between my legs? Because I did, I thought of how it would be to be under your control. I need it._

The next moment, you’re tearing at each other’s clothes. Or, mostly, you are, at your own. Tarkin doesn’t need his tidy uniform torn to pieces, thank you very much. While you can’t get off your panties fast enough, the governor calmly removes his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves.

Then he's pressing against you again, but now with another determination, almost fervour. His breath comes out in puffs, his lips tightly sealed. His eyes… He’s rubbing you now, with his hand, his fingers flat against your core, and you press up against them. He delves beneath your skirt and strokes your mound lightly, pets the hair there as if caressing a small beast while you would rather devour him.

Arms reach underneath your thighs, you hold on tighter around his shoulders as he pushes you up, aided by the door against your back. The veins on his throat stand out with the effort, yet his face betrays nothing. He glides against your folds, the head of him bumps against your clit and it is nearly enough just like that, but then he stabs hard against your slick folds, finds purchase and drives into you to the hilt. The effort is overwhelming and delicious, the urge, the brutal need as he slams into you again and again until he has to let your legs sink to the floor. For a moment you just stand there, panting, staring at each other, wanting more but the need to catch a breath is stronger. For a second he is just an old man with his dick out.

“Turn around,” he says, Governor Tarkin again.

You get into position, leaning, supporting your forearms on the door. He strokes your flanks, runs those sensitive hands over your rump and you follow, undulating rhythmically until you just have to arch your back and invite him like a womp rat in heat.

He presses against your backside, almost as if –

You let out a breath as he goes lower, guiding himself into you. He stills as your warmth engulfs him, then rock into you languidly at first, then picking up speed. An orgasm overtakes you almost at once and he lets out a grunt of satisfaction, not missing a beat as he chases his own completion with a regularity as if timing each thrust with his chrono.

Afterwards, he rolls down his shirtsleeves and puts on his tunic again. He looks invigorated, the pink on his cheeks suits him well.

“Now, a bed.”

“There are guest rooms on the top level,” you tell him just as casually, careful not to reveal how hurt you feel over his losing interest in you so quickly. “I’m sure you can stay in one of those. They have windows and are far enough from the dungeons.  I can get someone to show you the way if – ”

He tucks your hand underneath his elbow, a gesture that suddenly feels too intimate for what you are.

* * *

Stretched out on a bed, naked, Tarkin is still in command. Once more he proves that the air of authority he surrounds himself with is not in the uniform, but somehow imbued in the man himself. Even now, a slight sheen of sweat makes his forehead glisten in the moonlight.

His boldness makes you shy, his raised finger when you approach the bed sending a clear message. No clothes. Self-consciousness makes you fasten your eyes at his feet, knees, anything to delay the expected rejection as you hesitantly walk closer.

“Look at me!” Sharp as a blaster-shot his voice rings.

Your eyes at once fly to his face, his lips at first, then creep towards his eyes. Kindness, a hint of amusement even? Thoughts of insecurity dispersed, you stand a little straighter, open your crossed arms.

“You may look lower.” There can be no argument about what he wants. Whom he wants. Your earlier excitement awakes with your regained confidence and the feeling of _want_ is so sudden you have to send a thought to Jabba’s minions to lie down beside him rather than jump at him. You wet your lips and look at his face again, where the sweet smile has given way to something more primeval.

He leans over you and brings his lips close to your ear. “How do you want it? Should I be gentle, make love to you sweetly, take my time? Or are you in the mood for something… darker?” At the last word, his fist grips your hair, gathers it at the neck and just holds. The keening sound that comes over your lips is a shameful confession truer than words. A sardonic smile plays over his lips and tilts his head. “Hmm… which is it going to be?”

“Any- anything you like.”

His fingers trail lower, over your shoulder, your side, down, ah down to your thigh ah please yes and a fingertip delves further and you invite him, lift up, take him deeper, buck and press against those fingers and a look into his eyes, the lust there makes you moan loudly.

“I find myself quite impatient,” he remarks and withdraws, only to insert himself between your legs. The friction as he drags out slowly, then lowers himself again is delicious enough to make you keen. There’s nowhere to put your hands, clutching the sheets is too unfulfilling and eventually they hold his shoulders. Too gently at first, then gripping with growing strength as the need to feel him pounding into you harder, harder still is the only discernible emotion.

He’s panting, too, drops of sweat gathering in the wrinkles on his forehead, then flow down his cheeks. If he’s tired, it doesn’t show. On and on he goes, the inevitability of his thrusts steadily bringing you towards completion. And when it comes, finally, undignified and messy, you both laugh.

Everything is so quiet now, so still with all the panting and pushing ceased, leaving behind a lazy sensation of satisfaction. Your limbs are heavy with sleepiness. When were you last so content to do nothing?

The cool of the desert night has finally begun to affect the temperature of the room and you pull the sheet over yourself. He pulls it off again.

“There is no need for haste now,” he says. “Allow me to look at you.”

This time you let him, there is nothing he hasn’t seen already, nothing he would really care about.

His gaze falls to the white waves on your skin, then he traces them with his finger. So many of them.

“You have borne a child,” he states after a while, still not done caressing the marks on your belly.

“A son,” you admit, smiling. He was worth the marks, and the stubborn soft belly, too. His gaze encourages you to continue. “He’s grown now, a mechanic on a planet controlled by your Empire.” He doesn’t ask, but you provide the information anyway. “I have no husband.” He nods and places a kiss just below your belly button. His gentleness emboldens you. “What about you? Children? A spouse?”

“I have little time for personal pursuits, and I have long since made sure there would be no consequences of the indulgences I allow myself occasionally.”

You run a fingertip along the thick vein on his arm.

“Like now? Is that what I am?”

“Undoubtedly.” He smiles and touches his lips to the back of your hand. “Do you mind?”

“Do you think I would?” He shrugs. “I’m too independent to wish for more,” you tell him. “And too old.” You lift up a strand of hair where a few wisps of white have begun to appear near the roots. He puts it back and smooths your hair with his large hand, gently, surely. “Should such a thing matter to me?” He chuckles dryly. “I am still your senior by a couple of decades.”

“Maybe.” You trace his cheekbones, the noble nose. “But you are powerful. And handsome. You could have anyone.”

“I’m a simple man. I act on opportunity.” The way he says it, his eyes smiling to lighten up his entire face, even the room, makes you smile, too.

* * *

In the morning, you accompany him to Jabba’s audience hall, modestly walking three steps behind. There’s a balding patch near the top of his head. It matters not. Governor Wilhuff Tarkin is by far the most desirable man you’ve met.

You stand to the side while he conducts his business with the Hutt. Afterwards, he walks up to you, with Fortuna at his side. “You’ve enjoyed this one, yes?” the major-domo asks, gesturing to you. Tarkin nods, and the twi’lek continues: “She will be available for your next visit. I’ll see to it myself.”

“Thank you. The Empire values its allies.” The stiff nod doesn’t look entirely sincere, but it’s hard to tell if Fortuna’s offer pleases or outrages him.

“We are most grateful, governor.”

“Enough fawning,” the Hutt bellows. Fortuna bows in his master’s direction, then turns towards the governor again.

“I trust she will be more careful in the future, not to end up on the scene again,” Tarkin states. He doesn’t look at you, which is for the best. You’d do anything not to end up a temporary slave again, but Jabba’s threat in the case of repeated offence is almost a promise.

Fortuna smiles, revealing all his hideously sharpened teeth.

“My master has taken precautions. If she betrays his trust again, Director Krennic has agreed to visit us. My master is much looking forward to this performance.” With a polite bow, he returns to the Hutt, leaving you with Tarkin.

“So,” he says. “Director Krennic has his own agenda, and this doesn’t surprise me. Nevertheless, the Hutt will wait in vain, as well as my rash colleague.” The surety with which he says this puts you to shame. “I believe you’ve learnt something from this,” he adds when you hesitate to speak. “Haven’t you?” His gaze bores into you, making you blush and squirm under its intensity, and blush the more for letting his words affect you in this way.

“I have,” you say, making an effort to stand proud and push down all feelings of guilt. “I’ll try my best not to disappoint my esteemed employer, but I’m afraid it is bound to happen sooner or later.” You bite your lip. You’d have preferred this agreement not to reach Tarkin’s ears.

“You’re already planning it,” he states flatly.

“Does this shock you? I think not.”

”Not particularly, no.” He shrugs, then throws his arms about. “What can I say? You’re as entitled to indulgences as anyone. Just be careful.”

“With Director Krennic?”

“I was thinking more about the rancor.”

“Ah.” You smile uneasily. The situation feels so awkward. “I will. Thank you for… for caring.”

His smile lights up his entire face and he looks a different man. He takes your hand and holds it between his. They’re all bone and sinew, thin yet strong. Warm and dry, too. Skin paper-thin, smooth. You have not paid enough attention to these hands, nor have they caressed your skin to any measure of satisfaction. More, you need more of them. You add your second hand to the clutch, holding his, hard. His lips brush against your forehead and you lift your face, hopefully. He’s already resumed proper distance.

“I leave now,” he says and lets go of your hand, turning the intimate gesture into a handshake. “Who knows, perhaps our paths will cross again.”

“Will you not return? To keep an eye on the Hutt?” Your hands are suddenly unneeded, left to their own, to clutch the hem of your tunic.

He shakes his head. “Admiral Piett is usually in charge of that.” His eyes are mild, serene. Is he glad of this? Sorrowful? Does the idea of never seeing you again concern him at all?

“I see.” There is no acceptable way to express what you feel. This man, this beautiful stranger, owes you nothing. He cannot possibly imagine how attached you’ve grown to him in such a short time.

“Don’t be sad,” he whispers, his head intimately leaned close. You don’t answer, what good would that do? He hugs you briefly, politely, then walks up to the Hutt. He is an imposing figure even next to the giant, his low-key aura of power and control making him appear the leader in any company. They talk for a short while and then he leaves, with a nod as he passes by. Your eyes follow him until he’s gone. It’s time to leave the palace and return home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope you found the chapter worth the wait! There will be one more to conclude the story, next weekend hopefully.


	5. Variety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, but we're going down in a blaze of glory ;-)

To your merit, you wait three weeks until you begin to contemplate the deed that will set the Hutt’s deal with Director Krennic in motion, and then another two to find the courage to carry it through.

Not being starved for sex in general – that isn’t a fate likely to befall anyone at Jabba’s court – you aren’t in a hurry. The annoyingly confident director has etched himself into your mind with his charm and passion, and seeing him again is a treat to savour for when you can truly appreciate his visit.

You wait until the worst of the pain from missing the governor has subsided. He is not coming back, but there is another who will, and so you choose to turn away from pointless suffering and let your longing fuel your memories of Krennic until mere thoughts of some detail – a glove, a gaze, his voice thick with desire – makes heat pool between your legs.

It is easy to steal when one has no intent to go unnoticed. It’s a matter of a simple transfer of a larger sum, rather than a trickle of credits that would have bled the Hutt’s accounts for a long time until noticed. Still your innards turn to burning charcoal when they come for you. There is no guarantee that Jabba will honour his word, only the knowledge that his major-domo is fond enough of your talents to prevent his master’s use of the trapdoor.

Jabba laughs in your face at your pitiful attempt to steal from him again. At least, he isn’t angry, and even the melancholic Oola perks up at the announcement that a certain guest will arrive shortly.

“He looks very… capable for a _bolath_ ,” is her verdict. She clearly finds this particular ‘smallhead’ attractive in spite of his lack of headtails.

“He’s not for you,” Fortuna says silkily, then pulls her towards him with a hard tug of her chain and crashes their mouths together. Her expression of triumph is impossible to miss.

* * *

 

On the day of Director Krennic’s arrival, you take every opportunity to look from the windows of the uppermost floor. You play with the thought of inviting the handsome director to a guestroom, to seduce him slowly, in some civilised manner. Then, a shuttle lands and he emerges, easily distinguishable even from afar with his cape. He is accompanied by blackclad imperial troopers. As soon as you can discern his face, all thoughts of restraint are gone. You want it quick and dirty, to moan under him without a shard of dignity.

In the entrance hall, the gaze he directs at you is enough to melt every bone in your body. A gesture makes his guards remain by the doorway, while he strides up to you, backing you up against the wall. He is so beautiful. Restless energy emanates off him and you want nothing more than to be receptible for it.

“It’s good to see –,” you begin, only to be cut off by an annoyed gesture and a gloved hand pressed against the wall beside your head.

“Nine weeks,” he hisses. “How could you do this to me?” He’s not really upset, but it’s nice to see him pose. He is handsome when angry, and his voice gets a very attractive commanding tone to it. His endearing pout ruins the image rather efficiently.

“Don’t try to trick me into believing you’ve abstained in my absence,” you tell him.

He shrugs. “There might have been one or two others.” He looks around, his eyes landing on the approaching Bib Fortuna. “You?”

“Almost,” you admit. In fact, you’ve let yourself into the twi’lek’s bed with alarming regularity, even after you moved back into your own apartment in the city. Nobody seems to better understand your need to both be dominated and feel safe. Even if his plans for your future still make you cringe, his intent isn’t malicious.

“You need a real man,” Krennic states and puffs out his chest.

“You think so?” Your thoughts immediately go to Tarkin and you hurry to rule them in.

“Let me have you, right now…”

His ragged voice in your ear makes you let out a whimper, but before you can answer, Fortuna interrupts.

“Welcome, Director Krennic. Can we offer you a tour of the palace? I heard you take an interest in architecture.”

“Indeed, I was just asking to be shown some of the features on the… upper floors.”

Fortuna bows, baring his teeth in a knowing grin. “I am sure that would have been enlightening. My master is anxious about tonight’s performance. Until then, there are to be no, ah, distractions. If you see what I mean.”

“Perfectly,” Krennic admits grudgingly. “In that case, I’ll have a drink.” Seeing the twi’lek’s hesitation, he adds. “I’ll be perfectly capable to _perform_ , I assure you.”

* * *

 

The traditional slave-girl version of a dress is waiting on a hanger. Its combination of hard glittering stones and soft veils is extremely aesthetically pleasing. Yet, the implications of it – no free woman would wear such a thing in public. Bib strokes the material with an appreciating glance, his clawed finger threatening to rip the silk.

“The director specifically made this garment part of the bargain,” he says. “He has fond memories of it, yes?”

You are not without your own. Krennic’s hands on your hips, how he bunched up the veil skirt in his fists so he could  –

“He also suggested that this part would not be necessary.”  

You stare at the brassiere with its metallic embellishments. Not looking forward to wearing it is one thing, but the idea of making your entrance not covering your breasts at all? This is too outrageous a demand, even for him.

“I take it we will not satisfy the director’s wish in this?” Bib tilts his head to the side, smiling sweetly.

“Definitely not! If he wants to see me without it, he’ll have to rip it off himself!”

“An excellent idea. Our master will appreciate the effect.”

“About that – is there a choreography for this, something I should know in advance?

“The director is eager already; all you need to do is follow. But Oola will dance first.” The way he pronounces her name is like a caress. It seems a simple word, but you haven’t heard anybody else say it quite the way he does.

“She likes you. You should marry her.”

“She is already bound to me.”  The horrendous slavers’ armbands around his wrists is proof enough, he seems to mean as he dangles them in front of your face.

“Then free her.”

“Oh, I will. When I have the power to do so, she will be my wife. And you, my concubine. Will you agree?” He places a fingertip on your lips. “Don’t answer. It will be more fun for me if you do not exactly _agree_. You will be mine anyway, naturally. As soon as I will be the master of these halls.”

You shudder, both at the thought and at the effect his words have on you.

“Be careful,” you say, trying to ignore the wetness between your thighs. “You shouldn’t talk about such things.”

“Ah, I forget you are not yet part of the regular palace staff. Our master knows already, and encourages it, thinking his minions plotting against each other will keep him safe. I will bide my time.” He grins and licks his lips.

He stands very close as he helps you into the skirt, his hands dragging over your skin all the way from knee to hip. You shiver, and he does it again. It feels good to lean into him, feel his strong body behind you. You couldn’t bear if something were to happen to him.

“Maybe Oola needs some help preparing, too,” you suggest when he’s a little too close to feeling the evidence of your arousal.

“Good thinking. I mustn’t let her exhaust our guest.” He fastens the brassiere with the efficiency of long practice and only a tiny lick to the portion of your left breast that is visible above the cup. When he leaves, you are quite ready for your role in the evening’s entertainment.

* * *

 

You are not prepared to find Governor Tarkin in the audience. At first, you can’t believe it; you try to tell yourself that it’s a trick of the light, that the officer beside the Hutt’s throne isn’t the one you still see in your dreams. But there’s no mistaking those cheekbones and when his gaze falls on you it is an aphrodisiac that goes straight to your core.

Your first impulse is to go to him, but a wrinkle between his eyebrows stops you. He wants to watch.

Fortuna picks up on the exchange between you, of course he knows. “If one human can’t satisfy you, another one wants to try,” he remarks. “And if that isn’t enough…”

“Stay away,” the Hutt growls, swatting with his tail. “I don’t need another incident.”

“Of course, master,” Fortuna says, bowing and backing away. You know him well enough to see that he’s not deterred the least, but he also knows precisely where the boundaries are.

At the middle of the room, there is a chair. Krennic is seated upon it, a half-empty wineglass in his hand – hardly his first. He looks perfectly at ease, a ruler in his right element that casts appreciating glances at the dancers circling around him, and Oola in particular. A pang of jealousy hits you when the exquisitely beautiful twi’lek comes close enough to graze his cheek with her slender fingers and he almost catches her.

You can tell the moment he notices you from how he lifts his head. When you approach him, a fiendish grin is playing at his lips, then his smile freezes and his eyes narrow into slits signalling danger. You like it. The tension around his jaw is mesmerizing, all those small movements that tell you of his displeasure, at the same time as he can’t take his eyes off of you.

“So,” he says and stands. “You chose to ignore my instructions.” His gloved hand leisurely traces the outline of the brassiere, his touch featherlike, teasing.

“I did.”

“What should we do about that, hmmm?” He puts two fingers beneath your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes, at the smouldering hunger there. One digit presses against your lower lip and slips in when you take a breath.

Excitement sends a shiver down your spine. He looks menacing, but this time it’s all for show. This is an entirely different game now, your fate no longer in his hands. You look at him with wide-eyed innocence and bite down on his finger, hard enough to mark the leather.

Retaliation is swift. The glass falls to the floor and rolls away with a clinking sound. While you are still looking at it, the hand that dropped it lands on your backside with a swat that has enough force in it to sting.

Screeching laughter strike through the music, the Hutt’s pet apparently amused to the point of choking.

You grip Krennic’s collar with one hand, bury the other in his hair and pull him into a fervent kiss. It catches him with surprise, but only for a second, and then his mouth is on yours, set to devour and conquer. More of it is all you want and you grind against his thigh and he’s so hard against your stomach and all that’s between you is that awful, oversized blaster still at his hip. What does he have to prove?

“Shhh,” he says, holding you still as he whispers soothingly into your ear, despite his own excitement.

“I want you,” you whine. “Now.”

“Just a little longer. This is a show, remember? I will remove this abomination of a garment now and you’ll turn around and let them see how beautiful you are without it.” As soon as he lets go of your wrists, your fingers start plucking anxiously with his rank plate.

“And then we will –“

“Oh, yes. I’ll drive my cock into you, can you feel I how ready I am?” His hand comes down to your backside, pushing you harder against him. “Can you feel that?” A fresh wave of desire courses through you and only his barked command can stop you from tearing at his clothes.

“Soon,” he repeats and unclasps the brassiere. His hands are already at your front, catching your breasts as they spill from their confinement. His touch is as eager as his gaze, but he is gentle, expertly so. He sits back in the chair and pulls you closer, then buries his head in your soft flesh. His mouth latches on to a nipple while his fingers tease the other one into attention.

“So beautiful,” he moans, then turns you around to face the audience.

Fortuna sends you a wide grin and tugs Oola closer. The Hutt is wiggling the tip of his tail, making it hard for tonight’s masseuse, and a group of bounty hunters seem to have an orgy of their own in good progress. The governor simply sits there motionless, staring with intent. His gaze follows the hands that fondle your breasts.

You’re practically in Krennic’s lap now, your backside teasing him through his trousers. He holds your waist while you grind down against him.

“Come,” he says. “Straddle me.” He has unfastened the belt on his tunic, and when you turn around, it glides to the floor, blaster and all. Your hands fly to his crotch. You stroke the impressive bulge there a couple of times, until he’s red in the face, and then, freed, he sighs with pleasure. He leans back, giving you space enough to sink down on him. The thick, bulbous head presses against your slick folds as he’s seeking his aim, and then, with a flick of your hips, bliss. He lets out a ragged moan that is matched by throaty laughter – it feels so good, so incredible and you just need more, more – more – of it.

“Up.” It takes a while to register what he wants. “Up,” he repeats, panting. “Can’t finish like this – get off of me.”

 This is not what you want and you grind down on him hard before you allow him to ease you off his lap. Your left knee is on the seat still and he lifts the other up as well as you hold on to the backrest. You feel how he pushes the veily skirt aside, baring you to the audience. His fingers travel along your inner thigh, slippery with moisture.

“You want this so much,” he pants. “Such a perfect, dirty slut kneeling there, waiting for me to fill her up.” His words are silken, filled with desire and a sense of appreciation and awe that contradict the rough vocabulary. Fingertips brush against your clit and you arch your back, pressing against him. “Look at me,” he says. “Let them see what you look like being taken.”

Turning your head rewards you with more delicious touches, and the sight of his face when he enters you is nearly enough to make you come. He pants with each thrust, his breath is heavy as he pushes you forward, making the stupid chair rattle against the floor. You moan in cadence with him, looking towards the audience but long past caring what they think. Fortuna has his hand underneath his robe, that much you register, and the Hutt munches on delicacies at a frightening speed. And Tarkin –  Tarkin simply watches, just like before. His mouth is half-open and he is entirely still. Your keening moan as the director hits the perfect spot inside only makes him lift an elegant eyebrow.

Krennic hits that spot again, over and over and it’s too much and you can’t hold your head up any longer. He’s thrusting faster now, less forcefully but with a true aim that makes you see white the second he touches your nub. He keeps his fingers there, all through the climax that makes you shake against him, and only when it recedes does he come himself, with a loud, ragged growl that leaves no hesitation as to his sentiments. Heavily panting, he pulls you towards himself in a clumsy embrace and then sinks back into the chair with a sigh of content. He looks a mess in his crumpled uniform, at half mast and with mussed hair. Yet, his satisfied expression makes him more glorious to look at than ever.

“Just wait,” he says between pants, “I can go again.”

While Krennic recuperates, you crawl towards Tarkin. He sits up a little straighter and part his legs a bit more as if he could read your thoughts and approves of them. Between his knees is an excellent place to be.

“Please?” He likes that you ask for permission, and nods. Slowly, reverently, you open his fly. He makes no sound, but his breathing quickens as you palm him through the material. You look up, continuing to feel him, so hard beneath your fingers. You press your thighs together, the involuntary clenching as you see the hunger in Tarkin’s eyes makes you moan quietly.

“Go on,” he says quietly, then waits with half-open mouth. You wet your lips and give the silken head a kiss. A shiver passes over his body, his length twitches and swells even more, and as you press the flat of your tongue against it, his fingers brush against your cheek. Then he rests his hand on top of your head. His eyes are closed now, but his eyelids flutter every time you take him deeper. It is exquisite and you devote yourself to this service that is now the centre of your existence.

Krennic comes up from behind, growls in your ear and strokes you expertly until you press against his fingers for more. He enters you swiftly this time, without a trace of hesitation, and your body welcomes him instantly. His pace is erratic from the start, making it difficult to keep your mind on the governor. Tarkin’s hand on your head steadies you and provides focus.

It is exhilarating to be trapped between them and Krennic’s efforts have you on the brink in no time, but something is stopping you from letting go. He finishes loudly and the loss of him make you suck more eagerly and then a muffled sound comes over Tarkin’s lips, just a tiny grunt and it’s what you’ve waited for and you let passion overtake you and you tremble and swallow all that you can but you can’t control it and it’s so messy and –

When you look properly, there’s only a small puddle on the chair. Licking it up is no bother, only you’d rather the governor wouldn’t have to see your failure all. His eyes are soft, forgiving to no end. You’d lean your cheek against his thigh, but the stickiness around your mouth makes it unthinkable. You whine in exasperation and see how he takes out a napkin. With immense gentleness, he wipes your chin, then folds the napkin and puts it back into his pocket. Now you can finally rest your head in his lap.

You are vaguely aware of sounds around you – Oola and another female cooing over Krennic, his teasing and making them laugh, the Hutt chuckling and someone bringing themselves, or someone else, off. They are of no consequence. All that matters is being here, with him. His eyes mild. His hands gentle, stroking your hair, your face.

“I’m afraid I have exhausted her with my stamina,” you hear Krennic explain, “but I assure you, this condition is temporary. Last time she was quite eager to resume relations with me on the first opportunity.”

Fortuna translates and the Hutt makes an amused sound.

Krennic continues; “That said, I am a busy man, but should you wish it, esteemed Jabba, I could perhaps be persuaded to return for a repeat performance. That is, if my vast responsibilities allow for it. Duty first, of course.”

The Hutt makes a gurgling sound that Fortuna diplomatically renders as a polite inquiry of the esteemed director’s plans for the immediate future for himself and the lady.

“Let the old man take care of her,” he replies, “they both seem to need rest. Myself, I wouldn’t mind another glass. I’ve heard you have a remarkable cellar and I’ve barely sampled it.”

“Of course, director.”

The sounds quieten. The room is empty now, but for the enormous sleeping, snoring mass of Hutt. And the two of you. The governor has long since tucked himself away but he allows you this moment. He is exquisitely beautiful.

When he leaves the throne room, they have to carry you – your legs are numb from the extended kneeling. He ushers the servants inside a guest room and instructs them to deposit you on the bed. You keep your eyes trained on him, anything to delay the moment when must go.

The mattress dips and soft lips brush against your forehead. It is perfect and utterly horrific. This is when he leaves –

It is not. You register the sheet being lifted, a body nestling against yours, a naked arm around your chest holding you as you drift into sleep. There is no safer place to be.

* * *

 

It is late by the time they leave for the shuttle, Tarkin reflects. The suns are already high in the sky, causing pearls of sweat to break out on the director’s forehead. At least here, that nuisance of a cape and its impractical colour has some merit.

The sharp light hurt his eyes and he begins to walk faster.

“Wilhuff,” Krennic pants. It is, apparently, an effort for the younger man to keep up. “We need to inspect the hutt’s business regularly.”

“It’s still ‘governor’,” he retorts, increasing his pace. “And no, relations with Tatooine is Admiral Piett’s duty. I will not violate the chain of command for you to scratch an itch.”

“Hear me out. This concerns a business operation. Despite Piett’s humble beginnings, I doubt he has the required experience of the shadier side of commerce.”

He stops to gain the younger man’s full attention. “And you do, Director Krennic? I have indeed heard Lexrul referred to as a vermin nest, but your playing a part in it earning this reputation is new to me.” _Touché_. He starts walking again.

As always, the director is neither perturbed, nor deterred from his thoughts.

“That woman should work for us instead, Wilhuff. She may be useful, I’m sure of it.”

“She’s a liar and a thief.” He winces; he cannot quite keep the softness out of his voice. “There is no place for such people on a war ship.” That, at least is the truth, regretful as it is.

“She might respond well to training. I’ll have you know that I have an excellent record of –”

“The Empire doesn’t waste propaganda operations on lone civilians.”

“And it may not be necessary. She seems favourably inclined already. Quite generous and willing to share, don’t you think?”

“Orson!” He sighs. “I suppose unless I acquiesce to your wishes I will never hear the end of it. ‘Business operations’, indeed. Jabba’s an old criminal and that’s it.”

“The better to make sure to keep this planet and its inhabitants under imperial control. Once a month should suffice, I believe. Wilhuff?”

* * *

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Oola’s derogative nickname for humans is purely made up by me from out of nowhere. Being interested in languages, I did look for canon twi’leki/ryl vocabulary to use first, but found only fan-created words. 
> 
> 2\. After this story, I really feel that I need to write something else than Tarkin/Reader and/or Krennic/Reader. I still love these guys and I will probably not be able to leave them alone for long, but I wouldn’t mind a prompt or two if there’s something you’d like to see me write! I’m mostly familiar with characters from the original and sequel trilogy and Rogue One, and the Catalyst, Thrawn and Tarkin books, so please stay with those to increase your chances. Other than that, I’m pretty open to any pairing, genre etc and I would like to be challenged. I won’t promise I’ll write everything suggested, but I will consider all suggestions. 
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/perfecttimemachinestranger)
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


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